


unpainted walls

by Anonymous



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Spoilers for Main Story, roommates comforting each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 07:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13359120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: the nights strip away our coverings. please, please, don't let me grow cold.





	unpainted walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chia_P](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chia_P/gifts).



> Multiple characters with pairings implied or up to interpretation (Juza/Banri is the only concrete one). Most of the segments can be read as unrelated.
> 
> Roommate pairs:  
> \- Masumi & Tsuzuru (i / viii)  
> \- Kazunari & Muku (iv / vi)  
> \- Juza & Banri (v)  
> \- Omi & Taichi (iii / vii)  
> \- Tsumugi & Tasuku (ii)

 

**(i) inversion**

The problem with silence is how it grows. At some point, with deadlines pressing on his eardrums and the stress eating away at his tolerance like a slowly-oozing wound, Tsuzuru begins the slow process of falling apart. It happens without much fanfare, almost quietly; he hardly expects anyone to notice his smile fraying at the edges, his fingers flaking to dust as he types. There are just too many words piercing him from the inside in their desperation to take form. All he wants is a little time to himself.

He presses his lips together and forces his eyes open, watching the screen blur to white in the dark of the room. He hasn’t slept for three days now, he thinks. It could be four. He’s not counting much save for the mismatched characters on the page.

Without the irregular _tap-tap_ of the keys filling the air, all that’s left is the sound of his own voice, harsh and overloud even to himself. And then, in the minute gap between one breath and the next, something else, too.

Tsuzuru hasn’t heard Masumi’s voice in roughly a week. They don’t speak often on a normal schedule anyway, but in the privacy of their own room Masumi likes to punctuate the silence with irritation. “Such a pain,” he’ll mutter, not-quite-under his breath. He’ll clatter across the room throwing his belongings around with the lack of regard common to privileged children, and the rock music he so adores filters out through his headphones to drum against Tsuzuru’s concentration, too.

This new quiet speaks louder than anything. A sharp prickle of shame crawls over the back of Tsuzuru’s neck. It’s irresponsible of him to make a junior look out for him – no matter how obnoxious said junior might be. Yet it only strikes him now that the cadence of Masumi’s breathing as he sleeps stretched out a metre or so away is looser than when he’s conscious.

With a pang, Tsuzuru remembers that Masumi is only sixteen. That there must be shadows haunting him, too, for all that it never shows on his face. He recalls the awkwardness surrounding Masumi whenever Tsuzuru talks about his family – the same uncomfortable look that crosses Sakuya’s face too, sometimes, as if they are attempting to seem familiar with a concept they still don’t understand.

Tsuzuru shouldn’t be making his juniors worry.

Tsuzuru does a lot of things he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t stay up so late, that he shouldn’t have let things get to this point in the first place; he knows he shouldn’t sleep until he’s sorted out at least one of the countless threads of himself unravelling with abandon as he sits, but the very act of thinking is beginning to exhaust him. _Just for a minute_ , he pleads, slipping down in his chair, even as the rest of his mind screams that he’s giving in again, that this is the reason he can never hang on to anything good, because all he does is waste the time that’s been given to him and give up before anything is finished –

 

**(ii) attenuation**

They’re both injured. There are nights where Tasuku muffles his shouts into the pillows while Tsumugi pretends not to hear. Some nights they’ll run into each other in the hallway, groping about in the darkness to avoid having to feign sleep. Tonight Tsumugi startles awake from dim echoes of fear, failure, and a mocking voice telling him he’ll never amount to anything on stage. His joints pop when he stretches out, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to calm himself again. The bed is both too hot and too cold, and the silence around him sounds like a strange ringing in his ears.

Against the noise, Tsumugi makes out a shuffling nearby, soft grunting from down on the floor. As the sleep clears from his mind he recognises the voice as Tasuku’s. He must be doing push-ups or something there, another one of his distraction tactics. It pauses for a moment. “Tsumugi?”

Tsumugi doesn’t answer, too afraid of how his own voice will sound right now. His chest feels raw and tight still, so he imagines that hurt will carry to his tongue as well. The shuffling resumes, rhythmic huffs keeping time to an invisible clock. It’s more restrained now, aware of Tsumugi’s consciousness in their shared space. After so many years, Tasuku can tell whether Tsumugi is awake or asleep, even without verbal confirmation. He’d asked more out of courtesy than necessity, or perhaps simply out of a desire to hear back from Tsumugi, to have that proof of company echoed aloud for all their nightmares to hear.

This is the thought that pushes Tsumugi to answer, his voice a threadbare sigh into the room. “Taa-chan,” he whispers, waiting for Tasuku to still. “I’m here.”

The shuffling stops. Soon Tsumugi hears Tasuku creaking up the ladder to bed, rearranging his pillow so their heads are closer together. Tasuku’s fingers brush through Tsumugi’s hair; Tsumugi reaches up instinctively to rest his knuckles in Tasuku’s palm. He waits only a few seconds for Tasuku’s hand to close around his, radiating warmth, and their hands drop to the divider between their beds.

“Goodnight, Taa-chan,” Tsumugi murmurs. He listens to Tasuku’s breath even out, settling fully into sleep, and before he knows it he’s drifting off too, his thoughts anchored now to the warmth of their joined hands, like a beacon calling him home in his dreams.

 

**(iii) invocation**

He’d taken an oath, that day, a promise to never look back. It turns out that promises are easy to break, and moving on never ends, really.

“Back already?”

Nachi speaks with the mocking coldness of Omi’s dreamed-up counterfeit. He’s nothing like the laughing boy of Omi’s youth, the fearless leader of their group. At the same time, he’s all Omi has left, and dreams are the only place Nachi still seems real. Here in his dreams, Omi can reach out and believe, if only while he’s asleep, that he can feel Nachi as a solid presence again.

“I’m disappointed.” Nachi laces his fingers together, crouching down beside the remains of Omi’s ruined bike. “I thought you’d last longer.”

Omi sighs. There’s blood under his tongue, smoke stinging his nostrils. The memory is dulled by time, but the emotions they raise in him remain. “I can’t control when you appear.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe he’ll wake up. Nachi laughs at him. “Can’t control much, can you? If you don’t watch out, you’re going to lose something precious again.” He leans in, almost nose-to-nose. He looks more like the Nachi preserved in Omi’s photographs than ever, and it hurts to know that this image will be torn to shreds when he wakes.

“I don’t need to control anything anymore.” There’s too much smoke; it plugs up his ears and makes him dizzy. He thinks he can hear screaming in the distance, or possibly a siren of some sort. “I’m not a leader. That part of my life is over.”

He can no longer tell whether this is a dream or a nightmare. Nachi will seem right one minute and wrong the next – possibly a consequence of Omi’s muddled memories. “Don’t worry about me,” Nachi says, pressing his forehead gently against Omi’s. “You’re right to say that part of your life is over.”

Suddenly they’re standing in the dressing room backstage, the sort of awkward scene change that’s only possible in dreams. Nachi grasps his shoulders and turns him towards the mirror where he can see himself reflected in full costume. He doesn’t recognise the outfit, but something about it makes him halt momentarily, frowning.

He’s just in his usual pyjamas. _A dream after all_ , he thinks, shaking his head wryly.

“You were never very good at controlling others, were you?” muses Nachi. He slings an arm across Omi’s shoulders, beaming. “Couldn’t even control me.”

“I don’t think you’re the sort of person who could be controlled,” Omi says, and surprises himself by laughing.

Nachi’s beam brightens, lighting the whole room. “Well then, get used to your new role.”

“My what?”

Nachi steps back. The wind rushes through Omi’s ears; he’s back on his bike, but the handlebars are gone. “You’re not in control,” Nachi calls from behind. “You don’t know what’s going to happen, but don’t be afraid to go on anyway.”

Omi has no idea where to put his hands. He’s gripping the bike with his knees, bracing himself for the coming crash, and then he feels hands tightening at his waist. There’s someone with him, riding this bike that can’t be steered or stopped, and when he falls they’ll fall with him.

“It’s okay,” Nachi says, feather-light in his ears. “A leader is a leader, as long as they have somebody to guide.”

The bike tilts. Omi jolts upright from his pillow, swearing, grabbing at the phantom hands around his waist. When his eyes adjust to the darkness, he sees Taichi holding the uppermost rung of the ladder, peering at him worriedly. “Omi-kun?”

Taichi is always there when Omi wakes from a nightmare. The sight of him sets Omi’s heart at ease, grounding him once more in reality. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, I was awake anyway.” Omi frowns disapprovingly, about to warn Taichi about his sleep habits, when his heartbeat quickens again, wind beginning to roar in his ears.

Taichi is always there when Omi wakes from a nightmare.

 

**(iv) isolation**

One of Muku’s favourite books is about a prince who finds a poor boy who looks just like him. Bored of his rich, restrictive lifestyle, the prince switches places with the pauper boy and – something happens; Kazunari can’t remember what, but they all live happily in the end, with every loose end bundled up and bound tightly between two glossy covers.

Real life never turns out quite so neatly, but Kazunari takes pleasure in pulling apart the messes of the world around him and rearranging them into a slightly better shape. Creativity thrives on potential, after all, and the ability to see beauty in the midst of overwhelming chaos is a talent that artists have been making a living off for centuries.

“Kazu-kun, aren’t you sleeping yet?”

“Mm, I’m just at a good place. You go to sleep first, Mukkun. You can turn off the lights if you want; I’ll be done in just a bit!”

Muku looks at him. “Are you sure?” he asks, rubbing his toes together. It’s one of his nervous habits, but it looks super cute when he does it. If the girls saw him, Kazunari is certain his popularity would skyrocket – not that Muku needs it; he’s already a whole lot more than he suspects. “You’ve been looking a bit tired lately.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Kazunari waves him off. In truth, he probably has been dragging his feet a bit more lately, though he has no reason to. He still goes on group dates with his friends from university and harasses Tsuzuru at his part-time job. He’s on a winning streak in the troupe mah-jong tournaments, and preparations for the Summer Troupe’s next play are going really well, so objectively, Kazunari’s life has never been more in order.

Muku seems to hold a debate in his mind for a minute. Then he clenches his fists and sits on the floor next to Kazunari. “If you need to talk, you can talk to me, you know.” It seems to take all his courage to say this, and Kazunari almost gives in, but these aren’t waters he’s accustomed to, so reflex takes over instead.

“Thanks, Mukkun, but I’m really fine! You’re the best roommate.”

His words sound hollow even to himself; Muku visibly deflates at his answer. It makes Kazunari feel worse still about the whole matter. What would he say, though, if he were to take Muku up on his offer? Where would he start?

There’s nothing wrong, but Kazunari still feels like a mess.

To be more precise, he has nothing to blame for how he feels. It’s just that when he sees Muku and Yuki walking home from school together, or sees Tenma talking animatedly with Banri and Taichi, or watches Misumi bounding across the rooftops without a care for the world around him, it’s…lonely, somehow. He doesn’t resent them for it – he doesn’t _want_ to resent them for it – but his heart doesn’t always follow his mind.

Kazunari can dye his hair a thousand times but eventually his roots will show. He’s changed his speech patterns and his hand movements and his entire appearance, but he’s still so easily forgotten in a crowd. He’s so transparent he forgets who he is at times.

Muku isn’t the type of person to push, so he’ll probably continue to look worried for a few more days. It can’t be helped. Kazunari will sort himself out eventually; he’s good at picking up pieces and finding a way for them to fit together. It’s not ideal, but Muku will have to hold out until then.

 

**(v) salvation**

Banri’s dreams always start nicely. They don’t differentiate themselves until about halfway through, when he’s running through towns with an armed mob at his heels, ducking around corners hoping nothing’s going to slice him through from above when he’s not looking. In his dreams, he faces dire consequences bot for standing still and stepping too far out of line. His dream environments are always more extreme than real life, influenced by video games and filled with all the excitement Banri wishes he could experience while awake.

He doesn’t have nightmares, per se, but still wakes restless from his dreams, shocked into awareness by a dagger through his back or a bomb splitting him apart. He chases the memory of that feeling as it vanishes from his mind, leaving him with a distinct sense of dissatisfaction and an empty hollow where he’d thought he’d found fulfilment.

Now that he knows what it’s like to crave something you don’t have, he burns with it.

Abruptly enormously enraged, Banri turns to the source of all his problems – Hyodo’s lying there with a furrowed brow, grinding his teeth to dust as usual. He is infuriating, so Banri stalks over to the lights and switches them on, then whacks him on the shoulder until he wakes up. “What the heck, Settsu,” is what Hyodo says, sounding _disappointed_ to see him, and isn’t that just the most insulting thing?

“You’re too loud,” Banri hisses, revelling in the adrenaline starting to pump through him at the promise of a fight. “Could you not shut up for one second? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Hyodo actually apologises. He’s looking at Banri with considerable wariness. “Just put your headphones on or something,” he adds after, unable to help himself. “Don’t you have those fancy noise-cancelling ones?”

“That’s uncomfortable!” Banri explodes. This should be obvious. “This is your fault, so do something about it!”

“I can’t help it,” growls Hyodo. It lacks the usual bite, though, and he’s still looking at Banri as if he doesn’t know quite what to make of him. He’s not responding the way Banri had hoped he was – even if Banri himself isn’t sure how he’d wanted Hyodo to respond – and he looks more tired than angry. “What’s wrong? You’ve never had a problem before.”

“I’ve always had a problem with it!” Banri says, waving his arms around. He tries not to think about the first part of what Hyodo had said. There’s nothing _wrong_ ; there’s just something missing, and while he can’t imagine why, he’s convinced that this is where he’ll find it. “Why don’t you remember that? What’s wrong with _you_ – is your brain a sieve? Do you even have a brain?”

Hyodo grips his arms, locking them in place. “Calm down.”

He pulls Banri down, rolls him onto bed, trapping him there with his weight. It should feel restrictive, forced still like this. Hyodo is heavy and unrelenting all around him, and he fills Banri’s mind with his presence, tearing down all his mental escapes so he has no choice but to focus on Hyodo caging him in. He no longer has room to feel incomplete.

It had happened like this back then, too, he remembers. He’d been searching and searching all his life for something to latch on to, but everything he’d been looking for had been found that day, lying flat on his back with pain raging through every fibre of his body.

He muffles a scream into Hyodo’s chest, clenching his hands into fists so he can feel Hyodo’s fingers tighten around his wrists. “Why did it have to be you,” he asks, gritting the words out. He imagines Hyodo doesn’t know how to reply; why should he? It’s always been Banri, after all, deciding things on his own. It’s always been Banri who’s needed him in his story; Hyodo's story had a different goal from the start.

Hyodo doesn’t know how to answer, because he’s stupid, he’s frustrating, he’s _impossible_. He’s always there, blocking the way without even trying, managing to succeed when by all rights Banri should be leagues above him.

“Aren’t you the one who chose me?” Hyodo says at last. He still hasn’t peeled himself off Banri. “This is your fault, so take responsibility.”

“Hah?” Banri headbutts him automatically, glaring through red-rimmed eyes at Hyodo’s emotionless face. “Who do you think you’re talking to, you big blockhead?”

“Ah? I’m not the one sniffling all over other people’s clothes like a toddler.”

“Who the heck are you calling a toddler?! In the first place, _you’re_ the one who can’t keep his hands out of the sugar jar like a damned five year old; what is _wrong_ with your tastebuds, honestly – ”

He stops. Hyodo’s looking at him with a lopsided grin, far too satisfied for Banri’s liking. “I think my tastebuds are alright,” he says, leaning in like it’s natural for him. He’s flushed when he steps back, though, the barest hint of weakness enough to make Banri’s heart pound with the promise of a challenge. “You look better now.”

Banri watches him scramble back up to bed with wide eyes. He touches his lips wonderingly at first, then with extreme mortification. Part of him wants to yell for Hyodo to come back and finish what he started. The other part of him wants to curl up in bed and hide until he’s calm enough again to plan a counterstrike.

Still, he does feel better, full-body blush aside. He feels so much better he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, despite Hyodo’s incessant teeth-grinding, and this time his dreams stay pleasant all the way until morning.

 

**(vi) restoration**

“Hey, Kazu-kun?”

Kazunari’s hand stills over the paper. Muku waits him out. This is uncharted territory now; it’s not in Muku’s character to be so persistent. His jaw is set firm, his eyes steady. His looks older and more mature than Kazunari remembers him. People grow, regardless of whether Kazunari grows alongside them. It brings back the memory of a busy classroom, with students milling around, each vibrant and colourful and ablaze with life in their own manner, while Kazunari sits with his head down and wonders why he looks so grey in comparison.

“I went out with some friends from the track club on the weekend,” Muku says. He sounds like he’s starting a recital, his voice going light and dreamy as he continues. “For a long time, after I had to quit, I used to avoid them at school. I wasn’t sure how to be around them anymore. It was the same with Ju-chan; I wanted to be around him, but I thought that there was no way someone as small and weak as I was could ever be anything but a burden to him. I convinced myself that Ju-chan thought of me that way, too.”

“You’re nothing like that,” Kazunari protests. “You’re amazing, Mukkun.”

“You’re too kind,” Muku demurs, though he blushes a little at the praise. “But you know, it’s still hard for me to believe it, sometimes. I worry that I don’t have the right to be with Ju-chan, even though I know he cares for me. And when I was out with everyone from the track club, there were times they’d start talking about competitions and practices and I’d feel left out, even though I knew they didn’t mean it.” He reaches out to wrap his arms around Kazunari’s waist. His head comes to rest on Kazunari’s shoulder. “I don’t even know how it starts, sometimes – I’m just thinking, and before I notice I’ve started thinking badly of myself again, or imagining the worst-case scenario.”

“You can talk to me anytime if you need to,” says Kazunari. He might not be feeling great at the moment, but he’d be there for Muku in a heartbeat if needed.

Muku’s arms tighten around his waist. “I know,” he says. His voice is light as sunshine. “Coming to this theatre and getting to know all of you in the Summer Troupe taught me that. When I’m feeling down, you always help me find something fun to do as a distraction, and you look out for me all the time too, even when you don’t have to. I’m really glad to know you.”

Kazunari might possibly tear up a little at that.

“I think we’re similar in a couple of ways,” Muku continues, and now his arms are there to hold Kazunari in place, to bind him there as Muku’s words slice him apart at the core. “We tend to second-guess ourselves when things go wrong, and even if they don’t. I can’t control myself, so it all spills over for me, but you bottle it up when you get stressed, don’t you, Kazu-kun?”

“Haha, you got me.” Kazunari’s voice sounds weak and feeble next to Muku’s conviction. He’s fading away from the conversation, sucked into Muku’s pace. “What’s this, Mukkun, character analysis time?”

“A little bit,” Muku admits. He snuggles closer, his hold gentle again. “You always save me when I start to go downhill, Kazu-kun. I’m not the only one, either. Citron-sama and Azu-neesan both talk a lot about you, did you know? I think they really enjoy spending time with you. I can understand that, because I love spending time with you too.”

Something stirs amidst the broken shards of Kazunari’s self-awareness. Muku’s words brush aside his bravado and reach for him directly.

“We’re watching out for you too, Kazu-kun, because you’re our friend, and we love you. I think I’ll understand better than you think I will.” He sits up and takes Kazunari’s hands. “I’ve got plenty of tissues and chocolates stowed away here, so…talk to me, please?”

Kazunari breaks again, fully this time, all his defences collapsing into rubble. He squeezes Muku’s hands, drawing in a shuddering breath, and feels Muku squeeze back in wordless support. Together, they pull something beautiful from the mess he has become.

 

**(vii) obfuscation**

Omi’s nightmares are never quiet.

Taichi doesn’t inform him, but it’s easy to tell when Omi is struggling. He grinds his teeth, thrashes around, snarls with the feral instincts of a predator-turned-prey. Once, Taichi goes up the ladder to wake him and comes down with a black eye. He laughs it off later, saying he’d opened the door into his own face, and nobody suspects him. He takes it as a testament to his acting skills, the same way he had carried on for months lying to all of them to their faces, without anyone suspecting him. They still don’t understand the sort of person he is; they think he was misled, and that he’s returned to his real self now. In some sense, they’re right, but there is a part of Taichi that has always been a liar, willing to sink to any depths for the briefest moment under the spotlight.

“Sorry,” says Omi, scrubbing at his eyes. “Did I wake you?”

“I was awake anyway.” It’s a careless lie, but one that Taichi has never been called out on. He does a mental stocktake of what comfort drinks he might have left under his desk; sometimes Omi calms easier when he has something to hold, whether it be a lukewarm can of cola or Taichi himself, burrowing into Omi’s chest to witness the slowing of his heartbeat. Taichi, in all honesty, prefers the latter scenario. Omi was the first one to hear Taichi’s confession and accept him in spite of it, and when Taichi wakes from a nightmare of his own it’s still Omi’s long breaths that quiet him. Curled up against Omi, Taichi can see for himself the way Omi’s muscles relax from their tense contractions. Taichi’s nightmares are often a consequence of his past actions, but Omi’s nightmares are of a different sort. Anything Taichi can do to help, he’ll do, because regardless of what Taichi deserves, he can say with full confidence that Omi deserves rest. “Are you alright?” Taichi asks, squinting at the darkness to try and make out Omi’s expression. “Do you need a glass of water?”

Omi surprises him by reaching out and drawing him in; Taichi tumbles onto the mattress, Omi’s hands warm on his shoulders.

“Omi-kun?”

“Sorry,” says Omi, inexplicably. He runs one hand up Taichi’s neck, curling it there against his hair. “Sorry I didn’t – Do you have nightmares often?”

It’s difficult to follow Omi’s thoughts directly after he wakes up. Taichi presumes this particular question has something to do with Omi’s nurturing habit, his tendency to put others above himself. “Sometimes,” he admits, dipping his head a little. He leans into Omi’s touch, skirting his fingers over Omi’s wrist to feel his pulse bound under the skin. “I got swallowed by a giant Kamemanjuu the other day!”

He feels Omi’s amused huff against his ear. “I think Juza might actually find that appealing.”

“He’s too strong!” Taichi whines. “But that’s why he’s super cool! A real man!”

Omi’s hold on him loosens. He’s more relaxed now that the shadow of whatever nightmare Omi had been having has been chased away by the thought of giant carnivorous Kamemans. “Taichi?” he asks, searching. “I really haven’t been waking you up?”

So he’s still worried about that.

“I’m a pretty heavy sleeper.” Resting on Omi like this, Taichi can count smooth intervals between each rise and fall of his chest. “Besides, me being awake just means I get to spend time with you like this!”

He smiles, hoping Omi can sense it somehow.

“I see.” Omi sounds wondering, as if he’s puzzling over some new facet of Taichi he’s just discovered. “This is helpful to me,” he says. He’s stroking Taichi’s back absently, making him shiver each time he runs his fingers over a particularly ticklish spot. “Thank you, Taichi.”

It’s a small sentence. It’s just Omi being his usual self, endlessly accepting and appreciative of those around him – of a group that Taichi is lucky to consider himself a part of. It makes Taichi’s eyes sting, his breath grow ragged. “No problem,” he says roughly, amazed that he’s the one being helped when he’d been considering himself the helper in his mind.

Of course Omi would manage to pull off something like this – Omi, who takes up demands like they’re precious to him, who bears responsibility with a gentle smile and a steady hand. It seems Taichi shares at least a little of Omi’s desire to be judged helpful, even if in Taichi’s case it’s borne as much out of a thirst for acknowledgement and attention as genuine concern. He presses up closer, drinking in the echo of Omi’s words. _Thank you_ , he murmurs silently. He’s been saved more by Omi than he can ever express.

In return, he watches over Omi as he falls back asleep, and revels in the quiet that signifies peaceful dreams.

 

**(viii) recognition**

The words that die still locked away in your heart taste like regret. Tsuzuru has buried too many words over the years, wrapping them tight in their funeral dressings, hoping that they won’t come back to haunt him.

Any playwright should know better. Words linger, rising up the instant their shackles are loosened, and though Tsuzuru’s waking hours are filled with a handful of sentences that won’t string properly together, his dreams are packed with scripts that won’t stop writing themselves. _Friendship again?_ one plot thread whispers, winding itself around his throat. _Since when have you known anything about that?_

He wakes with childish laughter in his ears. _I love the plays you write_ , Mizuno had said, a gift more precious than Tsuzuru could ever express. In spite of that, Tsuzuru had been unable to give them a happy ending. _I believe that someday we will meet again_ , Luke says, young and trusting, but _someday_ turns to _never_ when the curtain falls at the end of the play. He’s still so powerless, unable to bridge the gap between them even as he clings to the confirmation that they’re still friends – that very word rings hollow when they can’t even meet face-to-face. What does it matter, when Mizuno still feels guilty and Tsuzuru can’t yet prove himself worthy to the people who matter to Mizuno?

He only has power in the realm of the fictional, and even there he’s failed. He can’t help laughing, throwing himself back onto the bed carelessly. He’s a writer with no affinity for words. In some sense, it’s almost funny.

A shift in the air; Masumi’s awake. “Sorry,” says Tsuzuru, stumbling over even this simple word. “Don’t mind me.”

Masumi’s focus draws to a point. It’s a miracle Tsuzuru can sense it, in the darkness of their room, but Masumi is characterised by his intensity, by his drive to keep chasing against the odds. Tsuzuru opens his mouth to relay some other inane excuse, but Masumi cuts over his awkward attempt without any hesitation whatsoever.

“You’ve been brooding, haven’t you.” He shuffles closer, his voice echoing between them. “So annoying.”

Fire sparks in Tsuzuru’s chest. “You’re one to talk,” he snaps, rolling onto his stomach so he can glare better at the shadows. “Don’t you ever get sick of sulking like a child whenever the Director doesn’t act the way you want her to?”

“The Director can act however she wants.” Masumi’s breath fades in, out of perception. “I don’t particularly want to talk to you, either. But the Director is too kind. She worries about you.”

“Good to know,” Tsuzuru mumbles. If he hadn’t been feeling guilty enough already, that’d do it.

“I didn’t tell you that to make you feel guilty,” Masumi says sharply. He sighs, as if Tsuzuru is some dim-witted fool who lacks fundamental comprehension skills. “You really are too single-minded.”

“I don’t want to be told that by you,” Tsuzuru yelps automatically. “I’ve just hit a bit of a writer’s block. Sorry it’s been bothering you.”

Masumi lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like a groan. “You’re seriously annoying,” he mutters. “Ahh, so annoying.”

“If I’m so annoying, leave me alone. I’ll figure myself out soon, so don’t force yourself.” Tsuzuru doesn’t have the energy to deal with Masumi at the same time as everything else he can’t stop thinking about.

“I can’t do that,” Masumi replies instantly. “The Director wants to give you time, but I think you’ve had enough time. Stop causing her trouble.”

“It’s not like I _want_ to cause trouble,” says Tsuzuru. He sits up, clutching his pillow. He is incredibly tempted to storm out and cool his head a little on the balcony, but if he did that he’d definitely be up all night, and he really is quite tired. “You really have no tact, do you? Do you even hear what comes out of your mouth?”

What must it be like, Tsuzuru wonders, to not worry about the effect your words will have once you bring them into existence? He wonders whether Masumi hides any regrets like the ones Tsuzuru carries. Probably

“Was that wrong?”

“Huh?”

Masumi pauses before continuing, the slightest hint of hesitation in his voice now. “I hear,” he tells Tsuzuru. “Sometimes, by the time I hear, it’s too late.”

 _Everyone has regrets_. Tsuzuru exhales slowly. “So?” he prompts. “Then what?”

“Do better next time,” Masumi says. After a short silence, he adds, “When it’s possible. Sometimes I brood like you, first.”

Tsuzuru recalls several instances of Masumi sitting with his knees up on the couch, looking dejected because of something he’s said around the Director. “Ah.”

“The games are helpful,” Masumi continues, his tone growing feverish. “I didn’t trust that guy at first, but he always chooses the right option, and the simulations turn out well in real life, too.” He sighs longingly. “Stories are great, aren’t they?”

Tsuzuru stares at him in shock. He thinks Masumi has forgotten who it is he’s talking to. “Yeah,” he says at last. “They are, aren’t they.”

The good thing about silence is how it leaves room to hear the little things, sounds you’d usually miss at normal volume. In the new quiet surrounding them, Tsuzuru listens to Masumi mutter about love and second chances, and the Director’s thirty-eighth variation on dry curry. _Regrets,_ he thinks, _give rise to new resolutions_.

The words that dance across his mind sing of promise and hope. These are words that Tsuzuru wants to bring to life on the stage.

He glances at Masumi once more, who is no longer paying him any notice. He’d probably be irritated if Tsuzuru thanked him – something about interrupting his daydreams about the Director – so Tsuzuru closes his eyes instead, drifting off to visions of leaping letters falling neatly into line under his command.


End file.
